


Brittle

by uncagingwardens



Series: Mabari Bred - The Story Of Two Cousland Sisters [3]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-18
Updated: 2016-01-18
Packaged: 2018-05-14 19:16:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5755063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uncagingwardens/pseuds/uncagingwardens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Little girls do not play in kennels. They don't get dirty, they don't slouch, they don't tear their dresses or hurt the suitors when they touch you.</p><p>Bri must not be a little girl, then.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brittle

_Little girls do not play in the kennels._ That’s what your mother says every time she catches you sitting on the dusty floor, skirt of your dress covered in dog hair and drool spots. She yanks you up by your arm, a rage in her face that makes your stomach hurt. You love the dogs and the quiet companionship they give you, away from the castle and away from mother.

You get a hot bath with rough scrubbing that turns your skin pink and hot. You look like a Lady again, and you hate it. You hate the dresses, the lessons, the nagging to _sit up straight! Look like a Lady, and Ladies do not slouch!_ It’s just dinner, why must you dress me up for it? You say it’s proper. Your father gives you a sympathetic look, and after dinner is cleared and you’re in your pajamas you curl up in his lap in his study, because his hugs make it better. He knows you’re just too much Ferelden in your little form. Too big on the inside, too all-encompassing. She doesn’t understand. But he does, and he tells you the stories of the Kingdom, of the dogs and Andraste.

He lets you learn by doing on your own, but your mother says no, let me, you can’t do this. You’re too rough, too wild, and too stubborn. You learn to be forceful and confident in your actions so no one doubts your abilities. Not again. But it makes you weak to failure, remembering all the times you were scolded and sent to bed without dinner because you did not do well. It gouged you out, and you’re a little emptier than you were before.

Then you turn fourteen, and begin growing into a woman. You hate it, now your mother is doting over you about boys and suitors and you’re scared. _Boys don’t like girls who are different, you’re going to be growing old alone, she tells you, if you don’t start acting like a lady._ Maybe being alone and free of this perfumed world is better than being with someone who only likes you for the color of your hair and the title that befell you the day you were born.

The suitors were all the same, looking you over like a man at a market appraises a horse: as little more than a beast. You glare all you can, icy blues that look like lyrium potion in the vials the healer keeps in her room. They laugh and smile, call you a spitfire, make you less than you are inside.

You grow up with a hard shell around you, making sure no one sees that you’re full of holes, of seeping wounds that never close. You never got the closures, because life is too cruel that way. You’ll never known if you were ever enough for them, if she was even proud to call you her daughter, or if she never spoke of you. If you were a shameful spot on the family name.

But, you have your dogs and they love you though you cry sometimes or you’re too tired to do everything perfectly. They love you like you’re the sunshine and you’re the treats and toys and long runs in the woods. You are their world, and you are enough for someone.


End file.
